


A Vael Falls

by PheadreofWynter



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, One Sided Love, Unrequited Love, garden party, moonlit garden
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-08 08:57:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11643216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PheadreofWynter/pseuds/PheadreofWynter
Summary: Falls between when the Arishok dies and the beginning of Act 3.  Sebastian escorts Hawke to a party in Hightown, something they've done a hundred times before but this time it doesn't end the way it always has.Please be aware it gets a little... well... religous-y.  But it's Sebastian here people, and it doesn't make much sense any other way.All hail Bioware, creators of my favorite sandbox.  All characters and scenery belong to them.





	A Vael Falls

The crush of people inside the mansion made it feel small, no matter that she knew it was as least as large as her own house. The ballroom was stuffed to the gills with over-dressed Lords and Ladies, serving staff and the occasional retainer. Lady Gemmeal could have used a few lessons from her own mother, Leandra, on creating a proper guest list. It couldn’t be helped now, she supposed. She accepted half a dozen dances from different men, trying to get in the spirit of things. They were mostly polite until the last one, Lord Jerome. By the end of the dance her smile felt brittle enough to shatter. But he was known for wandering hands once he’d had a few too many drinks, and she was trying very hard not to cause a scene. 

She wasn’t sure why she even attended these parties. She’d only started being part of the Hightown social scene to please Leandra, who had harbored hopes she would pick an eligible lordling to marry. Hawke herself had always known the marriage thing was never going to happen but she’d attended the parties as an olive branch of sorts. Her mother was gone now, had been for almost a year, she didn’t really have to come anymore. 

Moments later Sebastian caught her sleeve, and she smiled up at him, grateful for his solid presence. They grabbed glasses of wine and toured the room side by side, making small talk with the nobles. It was shocking how much easier it was to be on the arm of a man. The obvious sexism apparent in the nobility drove her mad. Plus of course, Bastian was a Prince which mattered a great deal more in this kind of social setting then her usual one at the Hanged Man. After awhile she set her empty glass down and asked him to take her outside for some air. 

He had been aware that Hawke was not having a good time. She had been quieter then usual, and her smile was a constructed effort, not the spontaneous joy he knew so well. They left the clamor of the other guests behind them. It was cool out this evening, one of the last parties of the season he figured. The chill air apparently had warded everyone off. They were the only two people outside.

“If I may Hawke,” he ventured as they stepped out onto the terrace, “you seem a little pensive this evening, if there is something amiss I would be glad to listen.”

Hawke glanced back at him, in the process of climbing atop the banister. “Just because you’re a Brother doesn’t mean you should be held responsible for soothing everyone’s conscience,” she informed him while hiking her skirt up for better leg freedom. She walked along the top of the decorative fencing, nimble as a cat despite the outfit.

He followed a few paces behind her, picking his words. “I’m a Brother yes, or was, but that does not mean I have no care for a friend. If you don’t want to talk about it that’s fine Hawke, but do not hide behind your ire for the Chantry.”

Stung a bit she hopped down off the fence and faced him. “You are annoyingly insightful oh Prince.” Her dress was silver velvet, and it clung like a lover from her breasts to the flare of her hips. Out of the light of blazing candles and fireplaces she looked even more beautiful then before. The night suited her. Under the moon she seemed ethereal, her pale Fereldan skin cool and white as marble. While he waited for her to decide he admired the way her lack of hair enhanced the slim arched lines of her neck and throat.

“You’re right,” she said finally, “I don’t want to talk about it,” and she spun on her heel and walked deeper into the garden.

“Fair enough,” he told her and followed close on her heels. They meandered down a side path to a section containing several small fountains and one large one. The water was not flowing. Either the enchantment that ran them had been turned off, or it had run out. Regardless, the beds were bone dry. Hawke jumped onto the low wall of the largest one and pretended to dip her toe into the non existent water.

“Would you tell me a thing, if I asked?” Sebastian said, talking a seat on a bench a few feet away.

“If you like. And as long as it’s not ‘what are you feeling pensive about?’ because we’ve already covered that,” she replied without turning.

“You don’t seem to hate the Chantry because of it’s views on mages, as Anders does. Nor do you harbor blame for the Maker for the bad things that have happened in your life. You are devout, in your own way, I feel it, and yet...” She had gone very still, “and yet you will not come the Chantry. You do not come to hear the chant. Sometimes the anger in you seems to verge on hatred when you speak of my chosen vocation. I do not understand Hawke.” His voice was earnest, and he leaned toward her. Every line of his body was a supplication for understanding, and she had nothing to resist him with on this night.

She stood facing him, “If you are asking me if I believe in thee Maker, then the answer is yes Sebastian.”

“And the Chantry?” he pressed, eyes locked with hers.

“The Chantry… means well,” she said evasively, and turned around to climb the fountain. 

“You’ll destroy that dress the way you’re carrying on,” he told her as she dangled from the top tier before using the lip like a pull up bar. She turned over and stuck out her tongue at him before arranging herself on edge of the stone disk. The velvet of her dress was indeed looking worse for the wear. “What do you mean the Chantry ‘means well’?” he pressed.

“I mean they mean well. Isn’t that good enough? They help give the world order and structure and common ground. Isn’t that the whole point of religious institutions?” she waved a hand dismissively, staring up at the moon.

He bridled at this, everything he had given his life to boiled down to tool of mass manipulation. “Now see here Hawke…” he began, chest burning with righteous irritation.

“Still, be still Bastion,” she said, “I do not mean to impugn the purity or sincerity of your belief. Or that of your fellow Chantry members. My view of the Maker is just, from a different direction.” She looked down at him, and her face was full of sincerity. He felt his anger subside. The gray of her eyes looked as silver as her dress. She was monochrome, made of melded shadows. He wondered just what it was that made her so captivating to the eye. 

“Educate me then Hawke,” he said. He looked behind her to the backdrop of sky, black and shot through with glittering stars. The night blooming flowers were making him light headed.

“Eyes sorrow-blinded, in darkness unbroken  
There 'pon the mountain, a voice answered my call.  
"Heart that is broken, beats still unceasing,  
An ocean of sorrow does nobody drown.  
You have forgotten, spear-maid of Alamarr.  
Within My creation, none are alone."  
She sang. Her voice was not particularly strong, nor perfectly in key, but it was resonant as crystal struck and left ringing. It pierced something in his chest to hear the words of the Chant he so loved coming from her.

“The Chantry gives great comfort to those who feel alone in this world. To let them know that the Maker is always there, that he cares for us.” Her eyes had gone dreamy, she seemed to be looking inward while she spoke, “and who is there for the Maker Sebastian?”

He waited, but she said nothing else. “Hawke? What do you mean who is there for the Maker?”

She shook herself a little, and her eyes refocused on him. “We are His creations yes? His children. He gave us the world, and our lives, and each other to share our time with. He gave us a paradise and what have we done with it? What have we done with it Sebastian?” Her intensity held him still as the stone of his bench. “How must he feel Sebastian, to see what we do? We broke into His City, we murder, we steal, we rape and we destroy. Even me. Maybe especially me. I try to do right Bastian, I do, but I have probably spilled more blood then almost everyone else in Kirkwall, and I don’t see that as likely to change. We are all his children, and yet we destroy each other. Imagine your parents, how they would have felt if you and your brothers killed one another. What that would have done to them.”

He could imagine the sadness, the horror on his mother’s face. He nodded to show he was paying attention, that he understood what she meant.

“Imagine that pain a thousand times over. A hundred thousand times. Imagine the depth of sorrow for a being who can’t sleep, can’t die. Imagine his grief. And then think of the Chantry, who sing his praises, yes, but spend all their time assuring the faithful that he is there fore them. People go when they need something. They need a miracle, or peace of mind, or advice. They go because they need the Maker.” She looked down at her hands, fingers wound tight together. “So if I sing, I sing to soothe Him. If I am moved to call his name it is with compassion for what He endures. If I know pain, surely it is as a drop in the ocean of His suffering. I will not burden Him, but only offer my faith as a thread of hope to help keep out oblivion. We are the Maker’s children, and it’s time we started living up to it.”

A stop, breathless and stretched, his heart paused between beats as he gazed up at her from his shadowed bench. She seemed to glow, limned in silver, like moonlight collected and formed into a female ideal. She was mystery, and the stars behind her head made it seem that all the heavens were her crown. Then his heart beat again, a hard, painful beat of life resumed. Sundered, shaken, he got to his feet. She looked down at him and the magic was gone but she was still beautiful, enough to make his chest ache.

“Ah, forgive me, you don’t need lectures from near heretical apostates,” she said, voice rueful.

“Don’t be silly Hawke, I was the one who asked. And I’m glad of it still. You must know how fascinating we all find the inner workings of the Hawke mind.” He forced himself to smile at her, ignoring the clamoring sirens in his head.

“You’re too kind Lord Prince, as always,” she teased, but he could hear the fatigue in her voice.

“It’s late. Let me take you home my Lady,” he told her, and he said it like he always had. His voice light, gentle, polite. His years in the Chantry having schooled his ability to control outward emotion, something he was grateful for just now. If she noticed his reflexive formality she did not show it.

She smiled at him, gratitude in her voice, “You’re right of course Bastian. I’m sorry I got a bit carried away there.” She signaled she needed him to assist her down from the dry upper bed of the fountain. She scooted forward and he grabbed her waist, swinging her down. The change in his awareness of her body’s proximity was unmeasurable. The curve of her hips against his palms burned him, and he let go as soon as she was steady.

“Not at all Hawke. I will have to do a great deal of thinking about all you’ve said tonight.” He replied. She balanced with one hand on his shoulder as she put her heeled dancing slippers back on. “It’s a perspective I have never considered, and I’m grateful you shared it with me.”

She looked up at him from under her lashes, a gentle flush of color on her cheeks. “It’s… hard to talk about the important things, you know?”

He wanted to kiss her. He was horrified at himself. “Yes, yes sometimes it is.” He agreed, and turning, he led her back toward the lights of the party. The affair was winding down, and they said their goodbyes quickly. It seemed like no more than a moment passed and they were at her door. The night air of Hightown was thick with the scent of wisteria growing from the second story window boxes above their heads. She removed her hand from the crook of his elbow and opened the door. The anteroom was dark, but a fire burned in the main hall just beyond.

“Bodahn must still be up,” she said, smiling. She knew her steward liked to have everyone home before settling in for the night. “Thank you for escorting me Bastian.” He found himself staring at her, he didn’t want to go. A line of concern appeared on her brow, “are you feeling alright?” she reached up a hand and laid it on his forehead. “You’re burning up! Maybe you should just stay over here and go back to the Chantry tomorrow.”

He sputtered and stepped back, blind-sided with images of spending the night. She’d meant in a guest room of course, he’d stayed over many times before, but that didn’t stop his brain. “NO,” he exclaimed, then modulated his tone at her sharp look, “No, I’m sorry, I just need to sleep in my own bed.”

Her face cleared, “I can sympathize with that,” she said with heartfelt agreement.

“Goodnight then Hawke,” he said and stepped back a pace.

“Goodnight, and thanks again for taking me. Those parties would be simply unbearable without a friend to back me up.” She smiled at him, white teeth a bright flash in the doorway before she vanished inside the house. He stood outside the door for only a moment, then turned on his heel and walked back toward the Chantry. On his way he went by the steps that would take a person to the upper section of Hightown, where he knew if he turned he would find the aging mansion that Fenris called home. 

Wise enough not to court more trouble than he was already in he put the thought out of his mind and kept going until he reached the Chantry. Inside the air was warmer, and every breath was laced with the incense he had grown to love. It soothed him. The thoughts and feelings ricocheting through him slowed a bit, and he want to sit in one of the pews. He bent his head before the statue of Andraste and finally allowed himself to look at everything that had happened tonight. He spilled out his soul before the Lady of Flames, down to the moment when that final shattering realization had reached him in the garden, under the moon. Tell me, he begged of the golden edifice, oh Maker and his Bride tell me what do I do now?

**Author's Note:**

> If you like my work feel free to visit my blog at Voxintenebris.com, thanks!


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